


Deaths path

by Dragon_Rose3



Category: Original Work
Genre: Because the main character is dead, Character Death, Death, death is not a bad guy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-03
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:21:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22942480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragon_Rose3/pseuds/Dragon_Rose3
Summary: Deaths job is not to kill someone as many would have you believe. Instead, Deaths purpose is to guide them wherever they must go next.However, the path they take to that place may be long and one person decides to ask death a question he's ever been asked before.





	Deaths path

**Author's Note:**

> First story on AO3! And I choose to do an original story that no will probably look at... oh well, gotta get my foot in the door somehow. Sorry if the formattings off. If anyone has any tips or tricks for that please let me know.

She is sitting in the middle of the street. An unusual place, most people who get hit by a car move to the sidewalk, or the strip of grass in between the roads; still following the rules of society even when they do not apply anymore.  


I make my way towards her, wondering what kind of face she will have. It is always the face that interests me. Will it be young or old? How have they changed it to look how they want? Do they have scars? I have never had a face, I have never been able to create the expressions they use to try to keep me away. Will the face be accepting, fearful, pleading for just a few more minutes? Or will it be reluctant, crying, yelling that I am heartless for what I do. In the end it won’t matter, they will still follow me. It is all they can do. It is all I do.  


I walk towards her into the street, headless to the cars whizzing past. She must have been here for a while, as there is nobody to be seen, not even blood to stain the gravel. She is sitting cross-legged, staring just over the treetops, to my left. The face, which is held in the palm of her hand, is young, but not so young, but so young that she will not understand this. It almost looks like she is asleep, her eyes are slightly closed not really seeing anything, mouth turned down in distant thought. Odd, usually those are the faces of people who die in their sleep, who consider this a dream because they do not know it is real. She doesn't pay any attention to the cars and buses that pass right through her, though the noise is muted and no wind moves her hair.  
‘it is time’ I say as I do for all.

She blinks out of her stupor and turns to look at me, the face becomes surprised, but not fearful. The cheeks are slashed at many angles, blood dripping onto the neck which is held far too much to the side, supported by arms that are bruised blue, purple, and black, the fingers at odd angles, held there by the splinters of bone broken inside of them.  


“So you're Death.” She says it matter of factly, yet sad, accepting a fact she did not want to know.  


‘yes’ I nod once and offer her a hand. This too happens for all, even the ones who know what has happened, know where they are, they all ask who I am. They always want to make sure of what I am. They call me many different names in many different words. I answer to all of them, but do not claim any as my own. I am simply me, I do not think of myself as anything else.  


She seems to be more accepting than most. She does not call me a monster, try to run back to where her body used to be, or flinch away. She takes the hand before her, stands up, brushes dust off the back of her legs, takes a deep breath and looks at me.  


“Okay, Let’s go”  


We start walking, I do not know how long it will take. The path is never the same for two people. Sometimes we can head straight there, sometimes we will go back to their former house, sometimes we go where they have always wanted to, or try to fulfill a promise they couldn't keep, sometimes we follow a routine as they have always done. Some paths are straight forward, sometimes they circle back, again and again, trying to connect with those they left behind. Despite what they think I am not the one who creates this path, they are. I am simply the guide, the one who keeps them moving, so that they will not get stuck.  


We head towards a riverfront, small stores line the streets, cafes and restaurants have their windows open and I assume the smells are leaking through the air. She has her head down, hanging lower than it ever did before, watching the pavement as it passes, sometimes looking up at a particular shop window. After we pass a candy store she speaks.  


“Can I ask you a question?”  


This is one of the parts that I do not like. Every person, no matter how old their face is, wants to know where we are headed. I do not like answering them for I cannot say. Every person's path is different, and I have never seen them leave the path, I just make sure they can. I am simply a guide, they are the ones who head where they must.  


'yes’ There is no need to brace myself for the inevitable question.  


“What... what have you seen?”  


I stop walking. She turns towards at me, her face is fearful, anxious, anticipated, and hopeful all at once. It is the face of one who wants answers but thinks it wrong to ask the question. Like those who will see their family, but do not know how to say hello.  


'what do you mean’  


“I mean... “ She is looking at the pavement again, her hands' fiddle with each other behind her back, trying to piece themselves back together. “Can you tell me a story? A story of another death? Not, not how it happened, but, what came after? Was it anything like mine?”  


Nobody has ever asked me that, I wonder why she wants it. I consider it for a minute. She is not asking to stay, or to talk to anyone but me, so long as we keep walking, we should stay on the path.  


‘very well’ I say, I start walking again, wondering what to tell her. I pass through a woman with blue eyes and purple painted lips, who carries a young sleeping boy wearing the face of a tiger. She steps to avoid them. Old habits still carry over even when they know it does not matter. I decide to tell her about a girl I walked with down this same street. Her face was young and full of colors, purple and black, green and brown, all tinged with blue, I met her in the center of a pond. I tell her where the girls' path went afterwards, as we exit the town, walking towards the river.

I tell her of faces who have called me a monster, called me a savior, greeted me as someone they seemed to know because they knew many others that I walked with.  


I tell her of a family, whose faces were burnt, they coughed up ash as they argued, and though they tried to walk the path together eventually their path split. Of faces that tried to scare me, threaten me, into letting them go. I tell her of the few who tried to trick me into staying. She slows her steps when I tell her of a face whose owner used it as a mask and changed it as they saw fit. I walked with many young faces because of that mask. I made sure to remove it when we met, I thought it would be smiling, or calm, as it had seen me many times before, yet they were still scared. I tell her of faces too young to possess the knowledge that would have saved them. Of faces who smile when they see me for they think it means that they will soon see other faces that I walked with. Our path leads us to many places over these stories, we walk across a rooftop when I tell her of a face stressed and gaunt, empty of all hope, that decided they wanted to meet me, but regretted it as soon as they saw me. We pass through smoldering ruins as I tell her about a face old and wrinkled, too frail to escape.  


She cries many times during the stories tears dripping silently down her cheeks. I describe the faces of people who have taken their first steps with me, how they didn’t care where they went, because they could get there themselves. They walked through fields, ran marathons, jumped rope, climbed stairs, simply because they could. I tell her of mothers whose paths are the lives of their child they left behind long ago, watching, waiting, only for their path to end, always before they can meet again. I tell her of the youngest faces I have seen, free of any knowledge or pain, who couldn’t walk the path even if they knew there was one, and how I carry them, those paths are short, their faces are the only ones that never change while we walk.  


The face is never the same, it always changes over the course of the walk. Sometimes it loses the age it started with. Sometimes it smiles as the worry drains with each step they take, going away from the troubles that lead them onto the path. Many times it turns stony and tries not to show emotion. Other times it opens and relaxes, not holding many emotions, yet not trying to hide any either. Those are the faces of people who are about to reach the end of their path. 

Soon, too soon for the eternity that has lasted, my stories are finished, and we walk silently down a small street in a small town. It is quiet outside the path, we are the only beings there. We walk with no real purpose, turning corners at random, each of us following the other. Eventually the silence breaks.  


“Thank you,” she says quietly,” for telling me”  


I turn to look at her, her face has lost all the bruises and scratches it once had, she holds it upright now, without the help of her hands, but it has also lost its youth, getting older, ‘sadder’, her eyes look far away, past the path and the walls and streets outside it, she smiles slightly. It widens as she looks back at me.  


“You’re a good storyteller.”  


We have almost reached the end of the path. I have never seen where they go, or how they get there. Sometimes I look away for a moment and they vanish, sometimes I will be a few steps ahead of them and they seem to fade, sometimes they are so silent, so small I do not know they have disappeared until I reach a new path. I do not recall if I ever had an interest when I started, or if there was a time when I was “new”, It has become as standard as all else in the routine. But I make sure to watch her, as she stops walking. We now stand outside a flower shop. She looks into the glass window, not seeing any of the white lillies or orchids that line the window. I have a sudden thought that she will ask another question which I have never heard before.  


“If we do happen to see each other again, will you tell me more stories?” Her face is similar to the one as when she asked me the first question, yet more open, more hopeful.  


‘i have never seen the same face twice’ I respond, the differences in the faces is one of the only constants throughout all the paths I have walked. ‘however if you ask me to tell you more stories, even if you have a different face, i will tell you’ That much I can do.  


She looks at me, her face slightly sad but determined, her path has ended.  


“Thank you.” She says one again, hesitating for a moment before wrapping her arms around me. I stay still for a moment. But realize what she is doing. As I try to return her hug, she becomes smaller, and smaller, my arms never finding purchase. Until she fades away completely, leaving me there with my arms wrapped around myself, feeling that I should still be walking with her.

So I continue to look at the faces I meet. I study them to see if any of them look like she could be in them. I look around the paths more, remembering details and the turns they take; listening when they describe the reasons why their faces have changed the way they do. Do they wonder why I watch them closely? They may think it is out of fear, to make sure they do not run off, or perhaps out of concern so that they make it to the end of the path. It is neither. I watch them so I will have better stories.  


I wonder sometimes, do I look different? Do I change throughout the path as they do? It does not matter, I will keep looking. I hope one day I will find her face again. I do not care how long it takes, For when have I ever cared about time. If I do meet her again I will have many stories to tell and then I will ask her to tell me one of her own.


End file.
